


half the story hidden

by CallicoKitten



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexuality, Genderswap, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, World War I, literally everyone else is the same except mary and matthew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 19:34:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9139054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallicoKitten/pseuds/CallicoKitten
Summary: in which mary is born martin, matthew is born matilda, there must still be a wedding to secure downton's future and thomas barrow appears to be rather caught in the middle of it





	

**Author's Note:**

> so i started writing this way back when series 3? i think was still airing in my quest for thomas barrow's hard earned happy ending and rediscovered it recently
> 
> naturally, i had to do some bending to make the show events line up the same way since mary's a boy in this 'verse but i've done my best, i think. hopefully it'll run right through to the series finale but i'll be honest, i might run out of steam. i do watch downton pretty often though so hopefully i'll stay inspired
> 
> a little bit about martin: he's become sort of my darling, brash and violent where mary is a little more subtle in her vindictiveness and he's very much torn between wanting to break things and wanting to make his parents proud

"But I don't understand," Martin says again. "I am your eldest child, your only male heir, am I not? Now that James is gone - "he says it flippantly and knows he has done wrong the second his father's gaze darkens. He rolls his eyes, "Oh, Papa, you know what I meant."

Truly, Martin had held no great love for his father's cousin. It made no sense to him that James would inherit over him, even less that marrying Patricia would do away with all of that.

"May I remind you that my cousin and your _betrothed_ are currently lying at the bottom of some godforsaken _ocean_ so you could at least do the decent thing and _pretend_ you can take the feelings of others into account, not just your own," his father snaps, keeping his voice low lest he be heard by one of the servants.

Martin bites his tongue. His father can be very dramatic when he chooses. " _Fine_ ," he says, eventually. "But we _will_ have to discuss it at some point. If we are to lose Downton upon your death, father, I should like some time to prepare."

His father sags wearily and crosses to the decanter of scotch on the side table. He pours himself a generous glass and swirls it. "It is the same challenge that was being made before your engagement to Patricia," he says, quietly. "The question of your mother's.... _suitability_."

Martin heaves a sigh, "Really, Papa, I'm quite certain Mama's fortune vastly outstrips any of those toffs you cater to so."

His father glowers, "That's not all that matters and you know it."

And Martin does. He won't pretend to understand the aristocracy's fascination with bloodlines and inheritance, new blood, old blood, blue blood, what does it matter? His mother's wealth should more than make up for her lack of perceived status but for some reason, it doesn't. His father married for money, not to improve his status and not for the first time Martin wonders whether his father regrets it.

His father turns to gaze stormily out of the window.

Martin falls silent, crosses his arms.

"We shall find you a match," his father says, firmly. "Someone suitable, someone that will stop those vultures breathing down my neck." He downs his scotch. He says it with such certainty, like there can be no way this will end poorly for them.

Martin glares at his father's back, "And if there's no one to be found? What then?"

His father spins to face him, "Then we shall all have to get used to the idea of living full time in the London house."

Martin huffs and stands, "And will I be expected to go into full mourning?"

"For God's sake!" his father snaps. "Have you no respect?"

Martin leaves his father to seethe and stomps out towards the gardens. He finds Sybil easily enough, sat on a bench beneath a great oak tree. She has not yet changed into dark mourning garb, still in her soft pink shirt, matched by the bow in her hair.

"Have you heard?" he asks, dropping inelegantly to sit beside her.

She nods grimly, "Isn't it awful? Edith was in pieces, she and Cousin Patricia were so close after all." She lays a hand on Martin's knee, "Oh, Martin, I'm so sorry.  This must be so painful for you."

Martin looks down at her hand, "You're sweet," he says, though he thinks Edith would probably do better with this comfort.

"It's alright to be sad, you know," Sybil says, earnestly. "I know you don't like us to see but you needn't hide your feelings just because you're a man."

"Don't let our father hear you say that," he warns.

Sybil beams at him. Made of sunshine, his little sister. "Alright. But I still mean it. I know you're sad, whatever you say, I know it."

"Do you?" Martin asks. He looks out across the grounds, at the house. When last they saw her, Patricia was wearing a periwinkle blue frock that set off her eyes beautifully. He tries to imagine her on the deck of the sinking ship, hair flying free from the simple braids she favoured, soaked with sea water and freezing cold. The early reports said that most of the women were rescued. He is sad, he supposes, for the girl he grew up with, rather wet but well meaning but he is not as sad as he ought to be. "Because I don't," he finishes, lamely.

"Well, when you're certain, I shall be here," his sister declares.

Martin smiles, takes her hand in his and kisses it. "Someday, you shall make a man very happy, Sybil."

-

Murray has nothing to add. He backs up Lord Grantham where the question of inheritance is concerned. It seems if Martin does not marry this new Crawley woman he shall inherit a small fortune but lose his family's land and title. He tells this to Lord Grantham, of course, not daring to look Martin in the eyes when he knows that what he has to say will be displeasing.

Martin sulks though he knows there is nothing to be done.

"A _nurse,_ " he repeats, flabbergasted as his father relays the details of Matilda Crawley's life to him over port. They are but a few hours out from the memorial with a houseful of guests and Martin wonders whether his father is telling him now because he is less likely to cause a scene. "You expect me to marry _a nurse_."

"I confess," his father says, placating. "It is certainly _unusual_ but I'm certain we can learn to - "

Martin cuts him off, slams down the glass he's holding, "Mother won't have it," he snaps. "Grandmama will be _livid._ "

His father doesn't react. "We must all do what we can for the good of the family," he says, calmly. "You won't be forced to do anything you do not want to, Martin. Your mother and I have always been very clear on that."

"Within reason," Martin mutters, repeating it louder when his father inclines his head. " _Within reason,_ father. You have always said we are free to do as we please _within reason._ "

"Yes, well," his father says.

-

The Duke of Crowborough is only hanging around because he, like everyone else Martin's father is desperate to impress, is certain Martin will be disinherited any day now. Martin's reputation follows him like a bad smell, that he has had his way with women from every class, that he spends his evenings getting outrageously drunk. Truly, Martin is uncertain where the rumours arose from (though he is certain they have more than a little to do with his devilish wit and charm and good looks and jealousy from those who cannot hold a candle to him.

The Duke is probably one of many lurking in the wings, waiting to pounce the second Lord Grantham gives him the boot. What they don't understand is that despite Martin's rather black reputation, in practise he's rather dull. Sure, he's gotten drunk at parties and kissed a girl or two he shouldn't have but it's _nothing_ in comparison to the stories he's heard about himself.

He glowers at the Duke over luncheon, watches as he flirts with Edith, poor unlovely Edith still stubbornly in mourning for Patricia, her bosom buddy and curls his lip. He has met the Duke once or twice before in London and there has always been something about the man that rubbed him the wrong way. Now, to see him make Martin's sister laugh so, to see him lay his slimy hands atop hers as he whispers in her ear, it makes his blood boil.

The Duke spirits Edith away after lunch and Sybil claps her hands with glee at the thought of Edith, who has always been full of such romantic notions, finally finding a husband. Martin doesn't tell her that the Duke is only hedging his bets, that the only reason he's here is to ensure that in the event of Martin's disinheritance, Edith will look to him for comfort. He wonders why now, what, if anything has put the Duke in mind to do this _now._

There must be a reason, he thinks, eyeing his father thoughtfully.

He watches them disappear into the servant's quarters as he's taking Isis out for a walk and frowns.

At dinner, Edith is rather pale, picking at her food and looking anywhere but at the Duke. The Duke of course, is all smiles and charm. He is too slick not to be up to something, Martin thinks and if Edith marries him, if Martin has to see him with anything bordering regularity, he shall throw himself from the roof.

No, this will not do at all. He must put a stop to it.

"What were you and Edith doing in the attics this afternoon?" Martin asks, enjoying the brief look of horror that passes across the Duke's face.

"I expect Edith was just showing the Duke the house, weren't you?" Sybil offers, smiling encouragingly at their sister.

The Duke brushes it off as a simple tour, makes play that he is interested in architecture while Edith flounders. Martin pushes until his father snaps at him and sends him through with ladies while the Duke and he take port in the dining room.

"That was rude," Sybil chastises as she hurries to sit by Edith and soothe her.

"Yes, Martin," his mother agrees. "Really, dear you must be on better behaviour when we are playing host to guests." But she doesn't appear too upset.

"It's only because for _once_ he's not the centre of attention," Edith says, from her place on the couch.

"Oh, do stop whining, Edith," Martin mutters. "I'm doing you a favour."

"A _favour._ " Edith echoes. "A favour? How is this a _favour_?"

"Yes, a _favour_ , you nitwit! Are you truly so blinded by your idiotic notions of romance that you do not see what is going on here? He only wishes to marry you for the inheritance! _My_ inheritance! Because for whatever daft reason he's got it in his head that I will be disinherited!"

"And maybe you _should be,_ " Edith snaps, bitterness clear in her tone.

"Children - " their mother begins but Edith talks over her.

" _Don't_ Mama! Don't defend him! Please, for once _take my side_."

Martin rolls his eyes, "Ever the _martyr_."

"He is being rather beastly," Sybil says glaring, her arm around Edith.

"Oh, not you _too,_ " Martin says. He draws out his carton of cigarettes. "You're blind, all of you."

"And you're _deluded_ and _self-centred_ and - "

Whatever Edith was about to say next is drowned out by their mother standing and saying, in a very decisive tone, "That is _enough._ We have a guest in the house, Martin, Edith, and you _will_ behave accordingly. Now, Martin, _sit down,_ Edith, dear, pay no attention to your brother's idiocy and don't stoop to his level."

"My _level_ ," Martin echoes, offended but he does as he is bade and from her chair their grandmother claps, "My, my, it's like going to the theatre without all those idiots yammering around you," she says, delighted.

-

Eventually, Lord Grantham emerges and informs them all that the Duke will not joining them for coffee and that he is retiring early to leave first thing. Edith dips her head, "Then I shall retire," she says, in a high, quivering voice.

Sybil throws Martin a _filthy_ look as though this was somehow _his_ fault as Edith leaves.

He makes his excuses soon afterwards, feeling rather aimlessly bitter and truly, he couldn't say what drew him to the bachelor's corridor. It's close enough to his own room that he has to pass it but something compels him to linger, to venture down towards the Duke's room, spoiling for a fight.

He is about to raise his hand to rap smartly on the door, perhaps to inform the Duke that whatever lofty ideas he has about securing Martin's title are as farfetched as the notion that Martin would _ever_ let him marry his sister, perhaps to lord it over him, perhaps simply to break the man's nose, he's really not sure but then he hears the voices.

"I don't believe that," Barrow is saying, soft, unguarded.

"Well, believe what you like," the Duke returns. He says something further and Barrow replies, too faint for Martin to make out through the wood of the door. "You were right to telegraph me," the Duke says.

Martin narrows his eyes. He would be well within his rights to burst through the door right now and drag them both out to demand an explanation but his mother is forever asking him to be more subtle in is ministrations so instead, he risks cracking the door just a smidge and peering in.

Neither of the men seem to have noticed.

"Well, you know how I'm fixed," the Duke is saying as Barrow goes about his duties. "I have to have an heiress. Even if it means going to New York to find one."

Martin watches as Barrow kneels, no doubt to slide the Duke's slippers off and asks, almost coyly, "What about me?"

Martin stiffens. He does not know much about Barrow, the man's been with them two years give or take, worked his way up to first footman in a year and has been acting as Martin's valet for a good few months. Martin is not in the habit of making small talk with his servants, not in the way his sisters gossip with Anna or his mother confides in O'Brien but now he watches Barrow scheme with the Duke and wonders how he had never seen any of this before.

 _Treat them kindly,_ his father had said, the first time Martin had made a maid cry with his harsh words. _They are as much a part of the house as we are. They will keep our secrets and nurse us back to health. They are the first to see us in the morning and the last at night and you must treat them **well,** Martin. Unhappy servants make for an unhappy household. _

He is already in half a mind to go to his father or perhaps Carson and inform them of Barrow's scheming when Barrow dips his head and presses his own lips to the Duke's.

Martin is transfixed.

He knows of such men, of _course_ he does and the knowledge that the _Duke_ is so inclined is so positively _delightful_ that all thoughts of turning Barrow in are gone, replaced by his own schemes. It will be useful to have something to hold above Philip of Crowborough's head, even if Martin has nothing to gain from it.

And then there is the question of Barrow. Barrow who says, _you came here to be with me,_ with such certainty and threatens the Duke in the very next breath. He could prove useful too.

He waits until Barrow is slamming out of the room, waits at the end of the corridor, watches Barrow pause for breath.

"Dear _me_ ," he says, and Barrow freezes.

There is a moment where Martin watches what he is certain to be Barrow coming - very briefly - apart. His shoulders slump forward, his head dips, his body trembles even as his hands ball into fists at his side but then, all at once, he goes rigid, turns on his heel smartly to meet Martin's gaze, steadily. "Your Lordship?" he says, as though he has never in his life stepped out of bounds.

Martin takes a step forward, experimentally. Barrow does not move away but his gaze does flicker momentarily to the space between them and Martin imagines he can see the clockwork behind Barrow's eyes working. _He's gauging how much space he has before he has to admit defeat and back up._

"You and the Duke seemed to be having quite the to-do in there," Martin says, quirking a brow.

Barrow's eyes widen a fraction, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, my Lord." He says, evenly.

Martin can see now the cracks in Barrow's veneer, the way his eyes are slightly red, the way his jaw is clenched just a fraction too tight. He thinks again of Barrow's desperate attempts to grab at the love letters, the hiss of pain he let out when Philip looked at him and said, _but I don't **need** a valet, Thomas._

(He thinks of the tender way Barrow had kissed the Duke's knuckles and _wonders -_ shakes that thought away.)

"Mm, I'm quite sure you don't," Martin says. "But I'm fairly certain Carson would, don't you agree."

The transformation is a thing of beauty; it shudders through him and has him bristling like a semi-feral cat, claws at the ready. His gaze darkens, all trace of placid servitude is gone and Martin is certain he can feel the heat of Barrow's fury radiating off of him even from an arm's length away.

" _Do_ you, my Lord?" Barrow spits and Martin smirks.

"Suppose I give you my word that no hint of this will reach the ears of either my father or Carson, if you do something for me."

Barrow swallows, "And what would that be, my lord?"

"You and the other staff are privee to certain matters that I am not always."

Barrow is still eyeing him but he seems to have relaxed a fraction.

"Do you see what I'm saying, Barrow?"

"I think I do, m'lord," Barrow says, slowly.

"Good," Martin beams. "I shall ready myself for bed this evening, I think but I expect to see you bright and early in the morning."

"I - " Barrow says, frowning but then he catches himself, draws himself up and nods, curtly. "As you say, my lord."

-

Martin is up in time to catch the Duke before he leaves.

He smiles as they shake hands, "It has been so nice getting to know you better," he says, leaning closer to whisper, "For all your _inclinations._ "

_

Martin rides out to Grantham the day Matilda Crawley and her mother, Violet are due in the village. He's welcomed at Crawley House by Mosley, smiling benignly as always and shown through to a room where a slight, blond girl with startling blue eyes is very clearly having words with her mother.

"I've no idea why we couldn't simply _refuse_ ," the girl is saying but she stops short when Mosley announces him.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Martin says, coolly.

He invites the two of them for tea, snickering to Sybil about it later. Of course, Sybil doesn't snicker. Much. She shoves Martin playfully, "Don't be so mean. They might be delightful people. You should at _least_ get to know them before you write them off as a complete waste of time."

"They can be as delightful as you please, Sybil. I still don't want to marry a _nurse_."

Sybil tuts, "Really, Martin. I don't know why you're so up in arms about it. I think it's a very noble profession."

 _You **would** , _Martin doesn't say. "Noble it may be, it's still no job for a _Lady_."

-

"Downstairs is abuzz, m'lord," Thomas drawls, brushing off Martin's suit jacket. "Miss Crawley's profession is causing quite a stir."

Martin hums, "I can imagine."

He would have thought things would be more awkward between Barrow and he after what had transpired with the Duke but there had been no hint of hesitation from Barrow when he appeared at Martin's beck and call the next morning. Martin watches Barrow's fingers as he knots Martin's tie.

"I think my father might have died of shock when she mentioned taking a job at the village hospital," he remarks.

Barrow almost smiles at that, the barest quirk of his lips.

"And what do _you_ think of our new Crawleys, Barrow?"

"Well, that's not for me to say, m'lord," Barrow answers, smartly.

Martin smiles, "Come now, you must have an opinion, Barrow."

Another twitch of his lips. "If I do, it's within my rights to keep it to myself, m'lord."

"I suppose," Martin says.

Barrow gives him one last once over and steps back from the mirror. "Anything else, m'lord?" he asks.

"No, no, Barrow, you can go."

Barrow inclines his head and steps out of the room fluidly. Martin stares after him, slightly entranced. It has been so since the Duke, when Barrow is present there is always a part of Martin thinking of how tenderly they had kissed, the way Barrow had knelt, the way he had pressed kisses to the Duke's fingers - He tells himself it is out of a sick fascination. The same reasons one might visit a freak show or museum of medical oddities, the same reasons one might attend an execution or one of those beastly, open air operating theatres they used to run.

A strange fascination with things that went against the will of god and man and nothing more.

(It doesn't matter that he finds his thoughts drifting to Barrow's bright eyes and red mouth as he lies awake. It is natural. He's gone too long without female company, it's natural for his mind to latch on to whatever it can to stave off boredom.

It's _natural._ )

-

He is offered a reprieve from the Matilda Problem in the form of Evelyn Napier, a good friend and hunting partner. They write infrequently but as of late, Evelyn has proved quite chatty and though Martin is _fairly_ certain his old friend is not throwing his hat into the same misguided ring as the Duke, he still decides to exercise caution when he talks to his father about playing host to Evelyn and his Turkish friend.

 _He's the son of one of the Sultan's men,_ Evelyn had written. _Here for the Albanian talks. I've been showing him the wonders of England. Surely you wouldn't mind me bringing him along; he's such a delightful chap._

Martin writes back and tells him _the more the merrier,_ or something because these days, he'll take any excuse to spend less time with Saint Matilda, whom both his sisters have taken to and even his mother seems to be warming up to.

He must admit, he finds himself rather charmed by Mr Pamuk. They ride together for most of the day, chatting and laughing. Mr Pamuk proves to be far wittier a companion than Evelyn, far less stiff-collared and proper to boot. It becomes a day of one-up-manship, jumps and races and the like amongst themselves.

He laughs at the notion that Martin must marry his cousin for his inheritance to be ensured, laughs at the notion that he must marry _anyone_ to ensure his inheritance, laughs about his family's concern over the maid that wishes to leave. Martin laughs too, bitterly and Miss Matilda takes the opportunity to be both snarky and charming over dinner in equal measure. Normally, this would needle him but it's easy to ignore her with Mr Pamuk at his side.

"You might be careful," Evelyn warns, as they are taking port and coffee after dinner. Matilda is talking to Mr Pamuk rather animatedly and Martin is mostly concerned with whether she is genuinely interested in the man or whether she is merely monopolising his time to annoy Martin. "It seems Mr Pamuk is getting along rather well with your Miss Matilda."

"As far as I'm concerned he can have her," Martin grumbles and there's something akin to jealousy blooming in his chest though he can't quite pin it down to a cause.

Evelyn arches a brow. "You would allow a Turk to inherit Downton rather than marry your cousin?"

"Mm," Martin hums. "Not quite." He sets his glass down on a side table and cuts across the room to Mr Pamuk and Matilda, taps Mr Pamuk on the shoulder. "Might I have a word?"

Mr Pamuk follows him in to the side room.

"That is my _betrothed_ you've spent all evening chatting to, you know," he says.

Mr Pamuk smirks, "Oh, yes. I am aware."

Martin nods, sets his jaw, uses the tone that sends most men fleeing. "Well, I'm not sure how things are done in _Turkey_ but over here it isn't the done thing to spend an entire evening flirting with another man's fiancé."

Mr Pamuk's smirk doesn't budge and it's infuriating. "My apologies, Lord Martin. I did not mean anything by it, I was merely being polite. I am sorry if my genuine interest in Lady Matilda's work was so offensive to you." He moves towards the door, pausing to say, "And besides, I was only, as you might say, _testing the waters._ "

Martin snorts, pulling out his packet of cigarettes. Mr Pamuk is giving him an out, he knows and Martin may be thoughtless at times but he has enough wherewithal to know that punching the son of someone of diplomatic importance is not the best idea.

 _And besides_ , an errant thought whispers; _it would be a shame to ruin such a pretty face._

(Heavens, he's beginning to sound like _Barrow_.)

"Find anything interesting?" he throws out.

Mr Pamuk chuckles, low and rich. "Perhaps."

-

He sends Barrow away that evening, his head still spinning slightly from the alcohol and Mr Pamuk's smirk and Barrow doesn't protest, he's Mr Pamuk to see to as well, after all. So Martin sheds his clothes and falls back onto the bed on top of the covers to stare blankly up at the ceiling and hope the world stops spinning sooner rather than later.

When the door opens without anyone knocking he springs up, certain it must be an emergency of some kind but instead, it is Mr Pamuk that stands there in his doorway, wearing only a dressing gown.

"Mr Pamuk," Martin says, mouth suddenly very dry. "Your room is down the hall, didn't Barrow show you to it?"

"I know very well where my room is," Pamuk says. "And I know precisely that I am in _your_ room. Or did I misread the situation?" His gaze very obviously flicks down towards Martin's mouth briefly.

Martin stares. Stares at the way Pamuk's hair is beginning to come lose and fall across his forehead, stares at the deep v of his robe, at the dark heat in his eyes. He wants - He _wants -_

But this is wrong. He is to be married. He is to be married to a _woman._ But he finds himself thinking again of Barrow and the Duke, of the way they'd kissed, of the heat in Barrow's gaze as he'd -

"Did I misread the situation?" Pamuk repeats and he is closer now, when did he get so close? He reaches out, grips Martin's wrist gently. "Did I?"

And Martin - Martin _relents_.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://callicokitten.tumblr.com/)


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